Darcy & Elizabeth

by Linda Berdoll

  Through war, pestilence, scandal, and death, Mrs. Darcy’s mettle had persevered. It would not come immediately, but she would eventually understand that like most tribulations, those that were not forgotten were endured. And even those that were endured would eventually be winnowed out.

  There were answers owed by her husband, and she intended to have them. It had nothing to do with her present distress. In no way would she risk the accusation of jealousy. When she spoke the name of Juliette Clisson, he must be both in good humour and unsuspecting. In want of the utmost candour, timing was all.

  15

  Lady Catherine’s Story

  Descended from the same noble lineage as her nephew, Lady Catherine de Bourgh was also a woman of great fortune. She was sister to Darcy’s mother and had made a very advantageous match in Sir Lewis de Bourgh. That union was not without its grief, but because the single occasion upon which that gentleman exhibited unerring good sense was to, quite expeditiously, drop dead, it was ultimately one of great success. Marrying, bearing a single offspring, and ridding oneself of the encumbrance of a husband all within one and ten years had been a comfort indeed for a woman who prided herself upon efficiency in all matters. Therefore, Christian charity compels one to assume that it was this aspect of her nature, not a lack of affection for her husband, which directed her to oversee the digging of his grave and the setting of his stone whilst his deathbed vigil was still in progress.

  ’Tis always sadness for a soul to be wrested from the breast of his family and taken in wing’d flight. This was particularly true of Sir Lewis, who was still in the robustness of manhood (figuratively, for in truth only his pigment suggested him robust, and no one accused him of actual manliness) as he was but two and forty. The corpulence of his neck announced his dutiful enjoyment of the feasts of life. Indeed, it and several chins billowed over and about all sides of his neck-cloth no matter how carefully it was arranged. Ergo, even the most optimistic of observers had to admit to no astonishment when he was struck by an inevitable attack of apoplexy.

  Lady Catherine, good wife, never tired of telling each guest (both individually and in groups, so as not to miss an ear) who attended her in subsequent years that she saw the event coming and had counselled him most vehemently, “Eat low on the hog and spare not the beans.”

  Those more speculative in nature whispered behind the backs of their hands that it was the gas, not the fit, that did Sir Lewis in. Whether seized by wind or stroke was unimportant. Dead was dead. For regardless of the manner of his departure, his being church triumphant left Lady Catherine a dual office. She was from that day forward not only the heir to his estate of Rosings Park, which was much admired by all, but sole parent to their daughter, Anne, who was not.

  Used to obedience, Lady Catherine brooked disappointment no better from God above than man below. Hence she was much put out about her own daughter’s lack of comeliness. As it was, Lady Catherine’s own strong features had lent her some handsomeness in her youth. But those same features when exhibited in Lady Anne’s narrow face had not the same success. It might have been inferred that a bit of self-recrimination for her daughter’s lack of pulchritude may have fuelled Lady Catherine’s vexation in this matter, but no one was actually willing to make that observation. In truth, the blame did lie squarely at her feet (or upon Anne’s face, in this particular instance). Indeed, a strong Roman nose, exceedingly long upper lip, and almost compleat absence of a chin grieved Anne’s aspect most unkindly. This equine quality of her countenance might have been overlooked had not any small excitement effloresced the nasality of her voice into an outright whinny.

  If her neighbours shared Lady Catherine’s disappointment in her daughter’s want of allurement, their commiseration also remained unspoken.

  Lady Anne’s lacking may have been disadvantageous, but it was not disastrous. Her connections were such that a good match was inevitable. What was potentially disastrous was that Anne had inherited a sickly constitution from her father. Yet, unlike her father, Lady Anne did not harbour a prodigious appetite and, consequently, was thin rather than slim. With no padding with which to ward off the cold, she took chill easily and was often plagued by coughs and fevers. Her indifferent health was a great worry to her mother. Lady Catherine refused to entertain the possibility of losing her daughter, not entirely out of unconditional maternal attachment. If Lady Catherine looked meanly upon disobedience, interference fared no better. Her husband’s untimely death was of little inconvenience, the forward progress of her life’s design was not altered. Losing the trail of issue through a lack of grandchildren, however, was another kettle of fish entirely.

  Although not a particularly contemplative girl, Anne was not compleatly dull-witted. Still, she might have passed blissfully unawares of the full extent of her own lacking had not her mother dutifully pinched her pallid cheekbones so fiercely, demanding them to rouge. Hence, Lady Anne passed her days in neither a dolorous funk nor effervescent bliss. She settled into a somewhat amiable melancholy. (Whether poor constitution induced this spiritlessness or it fell to the consistent abuse of her sensibilities by an exceedingly dictatorial mother can but be speculated upon.) The insult of a morose disposition, uninspired mind, pale complexion, and, if one were perfectly frank, a bit of a horse-face, was a heavy burden on such thin shoulders. Much to her credit, however, Anne suffered the slings and arrows of Mother Nature’s petulance altogether complacently. Those injuries notwithstanding, living under her mother’s unsparing criticism in and of itself might have persuaded acquaintances to pity Anne. However, they did not.

  Although she only had a single virtue, it was one valued above all others. For her father’s immense estate was not entailed away from the female line.

  Lady Anne de Bourgh was to inherit it all.

  16

  Nuptials to Plan

  Directly upon the very heels of Darcy’s return, a servant was sent to retain the services of the vicar. It had been imperative to have the baptismal of the new Darcy infants post-haste lest the poor babes depart this earth without holy blessings. That ceremony had been an occasion of unparalleled happiness.

  Pemberley was soon to witness another happy event. To a few pedants, this one was as essential to the redemption of eternal souls as the baptismal. Indeed, there were some theoreticians who believed that engaging in carnal relations without the vicar’s blessing was a most egregious sin. Most of society, however, turned a blind eye so long as the wedding did take place. Mr. Darcy believed himself far less hypocritical than the average gentleman—except when it came to his own sister. Indeed, to his mind it was urgent to have the wedding between Miss Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam post-haste.

  ***

  Before they began their voyage homeward, Fitzwilliam’s leg wound would allow him to sit for a time in a chair, but both his weakened condition and his poor balance kept him off his feet. Of equal concern to regaining mobility, because the enemy here was undetermined, was his eyesight. Both eyes had been burnt by some sort of percussion, one looked to be irreparable. Fitzwilliam tolerated the notion of an eye patch no better than the prospect of having to cling to Darcy to stand. Regrettably, this too was a necessary evil, for he only had enough sight left in his bad eye to keep the good one from focusing correctly. Even Fitzwilliam understood that in order to keep himself upright he would have to marshal all available resources. Hence, he reluctantly tied on an eye-patch. Georgiana stood by looking pleased and patted his arm, announcing her approval.

  “You look quite the dashing officer.”

  He smiled kindly at her flattery, but to Darcy, he whispered, “I look like Horatio bloody Nelson,” at which both men stifled a laugh.

  Compared to the dread and despair of their recent weeks, this was very nearly high revel for them. Such good humour most certainly was heightened by a dollop of giddiness for finally wending their way homeward.

  Despite his impairments, by th
e time they had docked, Fitzwilliam concluded that he must walk down the gangway unto English soil unaided. Although Darcy believed he had left nothing to chance for their journey homeward, a proper walking stick was not a part of their baggage. He delivered that bit of news to Fitzwilliam, insisting that there was no shame in being carried ashore. Fitzwilliam was just as adamant that he would not be carried “like a sack of grain.” Darcy was most unhappy to have reached port only to be forestalled by this last-minute hindrance. Still, once Fitzwilliam’s intractability on the point was accepted, he made fast work of locating a gentleman aboard whose walking stick was a negotiable item. It was an outrageous excuse for a stick, gnarled and lacquered, topped with an enormous ram’s horn. But Darcy had managed to dispose of his own expression of distaste by the time he returned with it and presented it to Fitzwilliam, who was by then waiting impatiently on the starboard deck. Initially, Fitzwilliam looked at it a bit oddly, but had no comment. But when he stumbled ever so slightly with his first downward steps, he carped over its unsuitability the entire length of the gangway.

  “No doubt this stick would serve a Scot well as he climbed about the Highlands, but it is rubbish for the use of an English gentleman!”

  “No doubt, indeed,” Darcy retorted sourly, sorely tempted to invoke the reminder that beggars cannot be choosers, but he bit his tongue.

  Indeed, until that moment Fitzwilliam had endured his wounds with stoicism. It was very nearly a comfort to hear him complain—even if only of an affront to his pride. After that last obstacle was scaled, Darcy gave himself leave to believe that all trepidations were behind them. There was nothing left for them to do but return to the bosom of their family and repair in both mind and spirit.

  But the luxury of boredom was not soon to be their companion. Directly, several astonishments of a generative nature would be uncovered.

  ***

  By the time Fitzwilliam was sufficiently recovered to hobble up the steps of Pemberley, he had been advised that he too was to become a father. As to be expected, that had been an exceedingly awkward conversation and, for Fitzwilliam, a tad difficult to follow. Indeed, it would not be an exaggeration to say that in informing Fitzwilliam of her impending parturition, Georgiana Darcy employed more euphemisms than a Shakespearean sonnet. Still, he winnowed out that in his delirium, he had somehow sullied this innocent’s virtue. Try as he might not to bear an expression of puzzlement, he knew he looked roundly perplexed. Although his recollection remained fuzzy upon the extent of his culpability, he did not for a moment question the veracity of what he was told. For all his life Fitzwilliam considered himself no less than the consummate gentleman. To learn what he had done was a blow to all that he knew to be right. He shook his head at the abomination of the thought. Not surprisingly, Georgiana had kept her head demurely averted whilst she told him what she must. Noticing her discomfiture, he patted her hand in tender reassurance that he would not desert her in her hour of need and all would be well.

  He dearly hoped that all would be well. For a cad such as himself, there would be music to face and it would not be a minuet. Had their positions been reversed and it was his sister ruined by Darcy, blood may well have been let.

  Hence, standing somewhat wobbly and clutching his stick in Pemberley’s grand salon before the grave countenance of Darcy, he was prepared to take his punishment like a man. The disapproving scowl Darcy had borne upon entering the room threatened the placidity of Fitzwilliam’s countenance and did little to alleviate his alarm. Although it was offered, Fitzwilliam refused to sit whilst he waited to see in which manner he would be greeted by Darcy—sabre drawn or hand extended. Whilst this reunion was played out, Georgiana and Elizabeth listened shamelessly with ears to the door and breath bated. After what seemed an interminably long pause, Darcy at last strode across the room to Fitzwilliam. He began to give a curt bow—thought better of it, and thereupon extended his hand. With a great exhalation of pent-up anxiety, Fitzwilliam grasped it in both of his, inadvertently allowing his stick to topple to the floor. Both men reached down for it and accidentally bumped heads. They both chuckled and Darcy retrieved the stick and handed it to his cousin.

  Hearing muted laughter, Elizabeth turned and rested her back against the door, giving an extended sigh of relief. She was in that same attitude sharing a smile with Georgiana when the door was abruptly opened. It was only with the swiftest of recovery that she was not sent sprawling onto the carpet.

  With surprising agility, she leapt to her feet (overcoming a slight rush to the head without toppling) and inquired pertly, “All is well?”

  The good Colonel’s injuries, unfortunately, were of a sort that were slow to heal. His soon-to-be brother-in-law was unamused at such a delay. Although as the seducer of record Fitzwilliam knew himself not to be in a position of negotiation, he had one demand. He refused to take his vows unless he was able to stand without the aid of a stick throughout the ceremony. Once that became the measure around which the date of the wedding would depend, Fitzwilliam’s recuperation was Darcy’s constant occupation. He sent daily missives inquiring upon his progress and undertook twice weekly visits to see for himself. So ghastly was his leg wound, early Darcy feared that it was possible Fitzwilliam might not ever be able to stand, much less walk from the church with his bride on his arm.

  ***

  Fitzwilliam improved by the day. Providentially, Georgiana’s waistline did not expand apace of the reclamation of his health. Although she was slim, fortune saw her tall. It was easy to forget that existing beneath her high-waisted frock was a coming bundle of joy. Hence, the guarding of her delicate condition, which was undertaken with as much diligence as any state secret, was all the easier. Darcy had always abhorred disguise of any kind, all subterfuge he found exceedingly distasteful. When upon those occasions his countenance was particularly worried by reminders of the deception they were perpetrating, it fell to Elizabeth to remind him that Georgiana’s situation was hardly singular.

  “So long as a wedding was observed prior to giving birth, little notice will be taken,” she assured him, “When they are married all this bother will be forgot.”

  Once Darcy had resigned himself to the necessity and the inevitability of the wedding, they needed only await various members of the family to return to health before the plans for a discreetly sumptuous wedding (as only Pemberley could provide) were put into motion. Far more expeditiously than expected, Fitzwilliam was ambling about with his stick. But although Elizabeth moved in inexplicable bursts of sprightliness, two fortnights after the birth of her babies she was still not so hale as she would have liked everyone to believe. Naps were almost as imperative for her as for her infants. Indeed, that she had not repaired apace to Fitzwilliam was a bit of a sore spot.

  That she was much hardier than the average lady had always been one of her secret conceits. She never subscribed to society’s insistence of a gentlewoman’s frailty.

  “It is a keen mortification that I have not recovered from childbirth apace of Fitzwilliam’s war wounds,” she pouted. “It is abhorrent to be so indisposed. Even Jane repaired much more quickly than have I.”

  “Jane had given birth to one at a time,” Darcy reminded her, “Please do not hurry to your duties.”

  Yet she knew that it was essential that preparations be begun with haste, lest the bride’s wedding breakfast serve too as a baptismal celebration. As mistress of the house, Elizabeth knew these arrangements should fall under her direction. Due to her own delicate health, however, Darcy thought otherwise.

  “I am quite qualified to make these decisions,” said he rather stiffly.

  Even had she disagreed, Elizabeth would not have injured him by saying so. Moreover, unspoken in his brief statement was the reminder that he had made arrangements with the utmost rapidity for the wedding of another couple. (Neither Darcy nor Elizabeth, nonetheless, was willing to speak of the Wickhams unless it was absolutely unavoidab
le.) That occasion, however, involved a detestable groom and a barely tolerated bride. Moreover, that episode was more fraught with urgency in that the groom was in serious risk of flight, hence frills had been compleatly foresworn.

  “Yes,” she replied, “your abilities are not in question. It is a matter of trespassing upon your time.”

  “I fancy there no better way in which to employ my time than to assist my sister and champion my wife’s well-being.”

  “I believe you should allow me the privilege of my own mind on the subject,” she sniffed.

  But she was not truly miffed. As much as she feigned great offence at his over-attentiveness, beyond the felicity of enjoying a doting husband, his stewarding of her health served her purposes. For so long as he insisted upon her rest, she could pretend it was a great bother—when in fact it was not. Enjoying the luxury of ignoring the duties of mistress of such an enormous estate and curling up in her feather pillows and down counterpane with nothing to do but kiss the tops of her babies’ heads was an unadulterated gift. But upon this issue, she was torn. For having been told by her brother that all decisions pertaining to this ceremony would be his, Georgiana was most unamused. Yet, as a compromised maiden, she knew it not wise to present herself as implacable. She was still conscious-stricken over the toll her actions had taken on her brother and therefore, Elizabeth. She loved them both dearly. However, she did not want her wedding trip or her trousseau to be designed by her brother. This would be the single occasion in her life that she coveted as her very own and he would condescendingly overrule her every wish. She would not have it.